


Correlate

by binz



Category: Dexter (TV), The Sandman
Genre: Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-20
Updated: 2007-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dexter passes by Death almost as often as he passes through life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Correlate

**Author's Note:**

> Written post-season one.

rita has enrolled in a creative writing course. it was spur of the moment, she explains, dish suds dripping down her elbows and soaking into the sleeves of her pink cotton dress. she’s passed the sign on the bulletin board more times that she can count, but today she’d stopped, copied down the number, and called from cody and astor’s elementary school parking lot. it seems kind of silly, but it’s something she’s always wanted to do, and she might as well give it a try. 

it’s perfect, really, she adds, one arm disappearing into the back of the cupboard and the other pressing three clean, dried glasses against her breasts. the first meeting after the summer break was only this past week, so she isn’t the only new person who will be joining in right now, and the group just finished moving their headquarters, so the meetings will only be twenty minutes away, instead of the almost hour-long drive she’d been worried about.

it’s tuesday nights, and occasionally saturday afternoons, although those are less formal and won’t be starting up for a while. they go for two hours, three when you add in the travel time, and halfway through is bedtime. it’s a lot to ask, and she can find a sitter, but she trusts him, and, just for the first week or two, just until she knows if she likes it, would he mind? rita pushes her hair behind her ear, leaving a wet streak along her cheek. 

“of course not,” dexter says, and hands her a plate. 

 

three weeks in, dexter waves a hand at her promise to find a regular sitter, and shakes his head at cody. “no luck there, bud. i’m afraid it’s an arm.” 

“ha,” says astor, and writes a purposeful ‘p’ under the gallows. 

 

two weeks later, rita meets him at the door, a lip between her teeth and a blush on her cheeks. cody and astor are at the neighbours', and will be back by eight. they don’t need baths, and she’s promised astor she could stay up until nine. would he mind –– how has his day been? how was work? how is deb? 

dexter shifts the laptop bag hanging from one shoulder, toes his shoes off, and takes a moment to study his socks and her questions and harry’s memory. 

“i’m sorry,” rita says, and pulls loose a piece from her upswept hair. “i’m being foolish. god. this is foolish.” she takes a deep breath while dexter waits carefully, trying hard to look understanding and only appropriately confused. “you’re being so patient, and,” she shoves a piece of paper at him. “would you read this for me, please? it’s the piece i wrote for tonight’s meeting.”

he takes the paper, struggles to remember any advice he’s ever heard about what to do when your girlfriend gives you a poem she’s written, and busies himself with scanning over the scattered adjectives and irregular stanza length. 

“it’s just,” rita says and folds herself onto the couch in the family room, dexter trailing behind her, poem in one hand and his bag hanging down his back. “i say ‘death’ five times. and i don’t want to sound morbid, but i think –” she clenches and unclenches a fist, fingers and palm stretching. “i feel like i need to. carla says that when you end something, a line or a stanza, whatever you’ve broken off with – like death – implies everything it’s not, too. and that’s what i mean, i think. i mean that i mean both. but do i sound too …” she spreads her hands, smiles, and rubs at her forehead. “like i’m thirteen and have just discovered black hair dye?” 

“no,” dexter says, abandoning his bag on the floor and sitting down beside her. he hands the poem back. “you’d have sworn more and taken to borrowing my t-shirts and cutting the sleeves off.”

rita waits a moment, and dexter wonders if it had been the right approach, before she laughs, and he smiles crookedly. “you know, sometimes i really wish i’d had siblings. but,” she sits up straighter, and bobs her head. “at least i have you, now.” the smile she sends him is soft and bright and easy to break. 

dexter grabs a mouthful of pretzels from the coffee table. 

“thank you,” rita says, and stands before leaning down to kiss his temple while he chews. “that’s exactly what i needed to hear. i have to go; i don’t want to be late. there’s some leftovers in the fridge if you want.”

dexter waits until her car has disappeared around the corner before pulling out his laptop. he has a new playmate to investigate, and some unanticipated time in which to do so. he grabs some more pretzels.

 

two weeks, some careful research, and another blood drop later, dexter lies in the backseat waiting, thankful that bill bobetsky bowls on wednesday nights, so there’s no conflict with rita and the kids, and is of the mind that there are some colognes bad enough that the bones of at least three baby girls are in some ways secondary. 

when bill has given up screaming around the cloth in his mouth, dexter turns the drill off and places it carefully on the tray before selecting a saw. in the glint of the moon on the blade he sees a girl. she has black hair, an ankh, and a hook below her eye. she’s familiar, and dexter finishes his work while she waits. 

 

it’s not until the last piece of bill bobetsky disappears under the water that she comes forward, leans against the rail beside him, and stares at the sun. “i’ve wondered, sometimes,” she says, hair blowing in her face, “if you were one of my brother’s.” 

dexter pauses, watches the horizon, and gives it a moment of thought. he doesn’t ask what she means; they’ve shared a lifetime of understanding. “no,” he says. “i don’t think so.” 

he thinks of the people who have seen him: a box of slides hidden in the wall and one still comfortably close, fresh and drying in his pocket; a man with wide hands and a squared jaw and sheer gall as much as a code; and a brother who’s tear smelt so strongly of salt that he can sometimes still taste it at the back of his throat. the sun has come up bright and clear, and there are birds skidding across the sky. “maybe one meant for someone else.”


End file.
